


It's a Terrible Life

by L_Greene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Major Violence, Serial Killers, references to rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Greene/pseuds/L_Greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU! Dean Smith is half of the serial-killing duo Cohen and Smith. Castiel Novak is half of the serial-killing duo Milton and Novak. They've never met until one chance encounter in Illinois. With Sam Wesson and his partner closing in on them, Dean and Castiel begin flirting with danger and with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Dean Smith had always thought that, between the two of them, Michael Cohen was far more of a showman. While it was true that Michael had dark hair and eyes, it was also true that when he smiled, people inherently, immediately trusted him. His voice was soft and soothing, and there was a kindness about his face—no, his whole presence—that caused people naturally to gravitate to him. He was only shorter than Dean by an inch or so, perhaps less, but he was built like a quarterback and gave the impression of being larger than he was. He never faded into the background, which was his specialty.

On the other hand, Dean prided himself on his ability to blend in. Although he was just as handsome as Michael—which was saying quite a bit; Michael was frankly gorgeous—he carried himself in a way that spoke volumes to his more subdued nature. His hair was sandy brown and his eyes were green, and if he would only hold his head a little higher, he would be guaranteed to turn heads, even (or possibly _especially_ ) with Michael next to him. As it was, he had no lack of companionship when he desired it, female or otherwise. But for the most part, he was more than content to let Michael take control, act as bait, stay firmly in the limelight. There was a reason there was a nationwide manhunt for "Cohen and Smith," and it had nothing to do with alphabetical order. He had no problem staying off the radar, at least as much as possible, all things considered.

But that was before he realized they were being watched.

* * *

Castiel Novak was in equal parts fascinated by, terrified of, and enraptured with Anna Milton, and all for the same reason. To a man with a weaker stomach, her work would be considered grisly and macabre, but Castiel had a tolerance for such things and considered her work genius, near artistic. He was of the rare few who could appreciate her attention to detail, her skill with a knife, the way she knew just how to make every victim scream until their voices gave out. For a woman to hone such a craft with her merciless precision both impressed and horrified him. She was unique in her skill, and he loved her for it.

It was so simple, the same every time. They'd mastered their MO by now. They would scope out their target for weeks in advance, track his every move, learn his afterhours haunts, slowly assimilate themselves into his life before they pounced. They would hang out at his bar of choice and Castiel would quietly slip away early on. Within the hour, Anna would pretend to be heavily intoxicated and seek out their mark, asking him for his help in finding her now-disappeared "brother" (here, Castiel would smile to himself; there was nothing remotely fraternal about their relationship) and their mark, upon registering the pretty redhead, would immediately agree to help her. After that, it was a simple matter of getting him to the back parking lot, where Castiel would be waiting in the shadows with a chloroformed rag. Crude, but effective. The real fun wouldn't start until later, after they'd dropped their mark's limp form in the trunk of their car and driven to whatever hovel they'd found for their purpose.

And so it would go, _had_ gone for nearly two years, until a chance encounter at a gas station in Illinois.

* * *

Anna climbed out of the car, her hair tucked up in a baseball cap with a few strands falling loose around her ears. She went around to the side of the car to refuel as another car pulled up to the pump across from them, diagonally and facing them. Two men got out, immediately drawing Castiel's eye from the car—a shiny black muscle car, Impala, late sixties or early seventies by the look of it—to its occupants.

One man had dark hair and eyes, his face incredibly handsome. He wore his faded blue jeans well, twisting to fling something shiny at the other man, the flex in his well-muscled arm apparent even through the well-worn black leather jacket and black T-shirt. His shirt seemed intentionally tighter than necessary, but it was an impressive view nevertheless. He had a bright smile on his face that had Castiel's rapt attention, and he seemed vaguely familiar. Still, it wasn't until he disappeared inside the convenience store and Castiel's gaze finally slid over to the other man that he was hit by a bolt of recognition.

That face, masculine and feminine at the same time. That necklace, black cord with a golden amulet hanging against his chest. That _ring_ , silver or white-gold band around the ring finger of his right hand. He hadn't even altered his usual style of dress—faded jeans, brown all-weather jacket over an unbuttoned green plaid shirt, dark blue T-shirt underneath that. Castiel knew this man, knew he stood at six-foot-one, knew his hair was called sandy brown, knew his eyes were green. _Smith._ That was Dean Smith!

Which had to make the first man Michael Cohen.

Cohen and Smith, only twenty feet away from them!

He imagined they could hear his heart pounding with excitement, exhilaration, at his proximity to the outlaws. He wondered if Anna had noticed them, what she would think. The news stations always ran the police sketches of Cohen and Smith around the same time they ran his and Anna's. Seeing them always made her crow with delight.

Imagine, though! The only two pairs of teamed criminals in the modern consciousness within spitting distance of each other! Castiel felt vaguely star-struck, as if he'd seen a celebrity idol across the street.

And then, inexplicably, Dean Smith's gaze flicked over to him.

* * *

Dean pulled into the gas station across from a mid-nineties Accord, gray and unassuming. He barely noticed the woman pumping gas, a lock or two of bright red hair tumbling from her baseball cap. Michael definitely noticed, though, because he grinned and whistled softly.

"She's not bad," he said with a leer in the girl's direction.

Dean glanced over at her as they climbed out of the Impala and nodded in disinterested agreement. "Yeah, not bad." He caught the keys that Michael had jacked from the steering column and now tossed in his direction.

He _would_ like her, though. He liked blondes and redheads. The brighter and bolder, the better. Pretty and showy was his style. A brunette with enough attitude would work, too. That was why they had gotten away with murder for so long—Michael didn't keep the same targets. In fact, the only thing they all had in common was that they were fairly attractive women. Blond, redhead, brunette—the one girl with green and pink streaks in her dyed-black hair—Asian, black, white, it didn't matter to Michael. And if it didn't matter to him, it didn't matter to Dean, either.

Cohen popped his back and sighed. The long hours on the road were wreaking havoc on him, but he figured it was a small price to pay, even if he was never allowed to drive. Dean was firm in his stance on not riding shotgun in his own car unless he was to the point of literally falling asleep at the wheel. "I'm getting some M&Ms. Want anything?"

"Cherry Coke and cherry pie," Dean answered automatically. It was always his response whenever Michael asked that question.

Michael grinned at him and headed into the store as Dean unseated the nozzle from the holster and began refueling. He glanced at the other occupant of the Accord, a man who'd chosen to remain in the vehicle. He only intended to look for a second or two, but he found himself unable to look away.

He had dark, messy hair, longer than Michael's, but not by a great deal. His face looked at once both peaceful and cruel, a stark contrast that left Dean breathless. He could see a tan trench coat over his thin shoulders, dwarfing him, and not much else except a sloppily-knotted tie. But what had him nearly rooted to the spot was the intensity with which the stranger stared at him.

Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he knew this man from somewhere.

Then the woman, simultaneously striking and demure in her dark blue body-hugging jeans, white V-neck shirt, and brown leather jacket, stowed the pump, and Dean realized he knew _her_. _Anna Milton!_ That was definitely her—she had the cascading red hair, sharp blue eyes, and face that practically invited you to go and talk to her. His heart skipped a beat. That meant the man in the car was…

Oh, yes. Now that he knew who _she_ was, he recognized Castiel Novak. Anna Milton and Castiel Novak, the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, right here! Milton and Novak were legendary, notoriously brutal. Dean felt a smile slipping across his face as he glanced back at Castiel. He wondered, briefly, what Cohen would say when he told him.

Dean winked at Castiel. _I know who you are._

* * *

Castiel's mouth went dry. Dean Smith had winked at him! That thought sent a giddy rush of joy through him, though, and he couldn't help but grin back at him. _I know who you are, too._


	2. Chapter 1

To say that Sam Wesson was having a bad day was the understatement of the year.

For one thing, his partner was being his usual obnoxious, chatty self. Pellegrino kept going on and on about their newest case which, make no mistake, Sam didn't mind rehashing with him, but there was only so many times they could run around the facts and draw the same conclusions before Sam wanted to drop his head on his desk—or crack his chair over Pellegrino's head. His partner was brilliant, too—he could pick up on details most people missed, he had an eidetic memory that meant he never forgot a person's name, he was able to form a map in his head of how people and events were interrelated. But the guy never shut up.

For another, this particular case they just picked up was one they'd been following for several years now. Pellegrino had badgered the detectives who had the case for any details he could squeeze out of them until finally Singer just handed the case over to them. Sam could sort of understand Pellegrino's fascination with it, too. It wasn't every day that a woman went on a homicidal rampage. Even if Sam could secretly sympathize with her reasoning, though, it still was twisted and fucked-up.

"Come on, Wesson," Pellegrino whined. "Pay attention to me! I'm _bored_!"

Sam rolled his eyes and checked his watch. "You know we have five minutes until the brief, right?" he asked.

"I've been ready for this for a year!"

That, Sam didn't doubt. So what if they'd be going over exactly the same information their department had had for the last three years? They had the case now—it was their job to go over every aspect again until their eyes bled or, as in Pellegrino's case, they completely shut down at their desks.

It was their eleventh case, but Sam could already tell this one was going to be different. Their last one had been a missing little girl named Missouri Moseley. Pellegrino had thrown himself into the case with such a reckless abandon that Sam thought he'd gone off the deep end—and maybe he had. But it became clearer later when Pellegrino's own daughter—Lilith Eve, although he called her Lily—spent the night with the two of them when her mother Meg was out of town, visiting her own parents. Sam had never known Pellegrino had a daughter. He'd known his partner was married, but the idea of him with a kid was bizarre on so many levels.

And seeing him actually interacting with her made it clear to Sam just now much Missouri's disappearance had hit home for him. He looked at Missouri's profile and just saw Lily. For his partner's sake, Sam hoped they'd find Missouri Moseley alive.

They didn't, though. They'd found her dead in the basement of a dilapidated house in the middle of the woods, chained up. She'd starved to death two weeks before, but there was evidence of physical and sexual assault everywhere. It was the first and only time Pellegrino looked visibly shaken by anything. He'd actually gone outside and emptied the contents of his stomach.

They never found the bastard who did it, and Pellegrino had taken a month off to get his head back on right.

He'd apparently put the case somewhere behind him (although not too far; sometimes he went quiet and Sam looked up and saw a faraway look in his eyes and he just knew that Pellegrino was thinking of Missouri Moseley and _we were too late_ and he'd never be able to fully forgive himself for failing that little girl), far enough away where he was able to at least act like his usual obnoxious self for awhile. Sam was grateful for that, in a way. Quiet Pellegrino was Unnerving Pellegrino.

They rolled out to the conference room two minutes later, leaving just enough time for them to find seats as Speight and Barnes hooked up a laptop to the projector. As soon as the door closed behind the last person, Singer motioned for them to begin.

Speight nodded at Barnes to start the presentation, and the first picture was one they all recognized. It was Michael Cohen's mugshot from six years ago when he'd been arrested for grand theft auto. "Michael Matthew Cohen. Twenty-five years old. Brown hair, blue eyes, five-foot-eleven. Wanted for eleven counts of car theft, five counts of armed robbery, and nineteen counts of murder." Speight gave another tight nod in Barnes's direction. Behind him, the picture shifted to another familiar one. "Dean John Smith. Twenty-five years old. Brown hair, green eyes, six-foot-one. Wanted for fifteen counts of car theft, twenty-eight counts of credit card fraud, five counts of armed robbery, and nineteen counts of murder. Cohen and Smith were best friends as kids. They had the typical teenage rap sheet—underage drinking, a B&E, two car thefts, one indecent exposure," he added as an afterthought, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Then, when they were twenty-one, one of their neighbors, a young woman named Daphne Allen went missing. She was found a week later just outside of town, murdered. Cohen and Smith skipped town right after she was found, and the local police department determined them to be the prime suspects." As he spoke, Barnes kept tabbing through photos in the presentation, of Allen's senior yearbook photo, images from the murder scene, photos of the Sheriff's Department. "Best we can figure, they blow into town, pick a girl, kill her, and move on. No firm motive yet, but..."

"Pretty sure it's just for kicks," Barnes went on. He and Speight switched places. "Local LEOs said they interviewed the parents. They were inseparable as kids. Both of them apparently liked roasting ants with magnifying glasses—stupid kid stuff. In middle school, they moved up to squirrels and rabbits. In high school, there was allegedly a dog, but nothing was ever proven. But the history of torturing animals lends itself to the theory that these two are just cold-blooded killers.

"We've been tracking their movements for a few years now, but wherever they show up, it's... it's just random. They'll be in California one day and then three days later, they surface in New York. They've hit every state in the continental United States at least once, even if they don't actually commit a murder. Last place we have them seen is Illinois, just outside Peoria."

Something started buzzing at the back of Sam's head, and he glanced at Pellegrino to see if he felt it, too. His partner had fixed him with a quizzical look, raising his eyebrow.

Barnes began the litany of Cohen and Smith's alleged victims, beginning with Daphne Allen and ending with Bela Talbot just six weeks prior in Colorado. Then Speight concluded with the comment that, with how striking the two were— _Understatement_ , thought Sam, who acknowledged that the two were incredibly handsome and should have stuck out in a crowd—they should be easy to locate, but they still kept managing to pull off their murders. He recommended alerting every major law enforcement branch—state troopers, police departments, sheriff departments—to have teams ready to go the moment they showed up, _if_ they showed up somewhere, but Sam had no illusions about how well that would work. No matter how many small towns Cohen and Smith blew into, most cops just wouldn't believe it could happen in _their_ small town until it was too late.

Sam and Pellegrino took Speight and Barnes's places, switching out the laptops and bringing up their own presentation. Sam settled himself behind his computer and Pellegrino went to the front of the room.

The first picture appeared on the projector screen behind Pellegrino, and the strawberry blond started speaking. "This is Anna Grace Milton. Twenty-six years old, red hair, blue eyes, five-foot-six. Wanted for twelve counts of murder. And then her accomplice..." Sam clicked over to the next slide, replacing Milton's high school photo with a man's face. "Castiel James Novak. Twenty-seven years old, brown hair, blue eyes, five-foot-eleven. Wanted for twelve counts of accessory to murder and one count of attempted murder. From the reports we've received, Milton is the mastermind, and Novak does what she orders.

"Milton's on a revenge bender. Four years ago, Milton was raped by a family friend, Zachariah Fuller. She went to the hospital and reported it. The information was passed to the local police department, who basically laughed it off. Her family disowned her. Three days later, Fuller was found murdered in his home, and Milton and Novak skipped town." Sam clicked to the next slide, and a man with blond curls and blue eyes fills the screen. "Another friend of Novak's, Balthazar Roché, spoke to police after the pair disappeared. He says he tried to convince Novak to have Milton just turn herself in, and that Novak essentially said 'Fuck you' and took off."

"Well, he didn't actually say 'Fuck you,'" Sam volunteered.

"Right. Novak actually stabbed him in the back. Just missed his kidney. Left him there to die, except Roché was able to call an ambulance. He reported the incident once he stabilized."

"Doesn't sound very friendly to me," Singer said gruffly.

"We think by then, Milton had already convinced Novak that she was right and everyone else would just try to hurt them. She has a powerful hold over him," Sam said.

"And where is Roché now?"

Sam started flipping through his notes, but Pellegrino was already answering. "Roché is French by birth. About two years after Milton and Novak left Paradise Hills, he went back to France."

"Balls," Singer muttered. "Didn't anyone tell _him_ not to skip town?"

"It was two years after they left. There's no record from the Paradise Hills Police Department or any other law enforcement agency that anyone tried to contact him," Sam pointed out. "He must have thought that two years of nothing was enough time to go back if he wanted to. You can't really blame him for that."

"Well, it's about to make your job that much harder," Singer said. "I want you two to follow up with him ASAP."

Sam and Pellegrino both rolled their eyes, but Pellegrino said, "Yes, sir."

"Alright, continue."

"Right. Well, best we can figure, their MO is pretty similar to Cohen and Smith's. They're not as well-traveled, but they head into town, pick a mark, and follow him for a couple of months. Corner him, kill him, disappear. The most notable part about their MO is that they only choose victims who have multiple counts of violence against women on their records. Rape, domestic and spousal abuse, that kind of thing." Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. "They disappear for months at a time and reappear out of nowhere. It's hard to pinpoint where they'll pop up next, but their last known location was about a week ago at a gas station in Illinois." He pulled up the photo they had from the surveillance camera of Milton pumping gas into a nondescript '95 Honda Accord. In the passenger's seat sat a man who was clearly Castiel Novak, although a few years older than his high school yearbook photo.

Speight nearly jumped out of his seat and sprinted to the projector screen, but he didn't look at Milton or Novak. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the upper-left corner of the screen, where a dark-haired man stood with one arm up, as if he'd just thrown something. Next to him was the side of a black car that looked to be over forty years old.

"Wesson, you got any other photos from that camera?" Barnes asked, somehow following Speight's train of thought as the shorter agent spun around, a wild look in his eyes.

"Uh, yeah, I think so. Hang on. You looking at that guy up there?"

"Yeah."

Sam scrolled through a few more and, frame by frame, the man lowered his arm, something shiny slowly flying into his hand, until he turned around and faced the camera. Speight nearly fell over.

"That's Michael Cohen," he murmured.

They all squinted closely, and there was no denying it: Michael Cohen and what looked to be Dean Smith's '67 Impala had been at the same gas station as Milton and Novak.

"Son of a bitch," Barnes breathed.


End file.
